


Sun Reaching Skyward

by antonomasia09



Category: Gangsta. (Anime & Manga), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Celebrer, Crossover, Force-Sensitive Nicolas Brown, Force-Sensitive Worick Arcangelo, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Long-Suffering CC-3636 | Wolffe, Parental Plo Koon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:35:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26723752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antonomasia09/pseuds/antonomasia09
Summary: Young Nic and Worick try to pickpocket Wolffe. It might be the best decision they’ve ever made, and the biggest headache Wolffe has ever had.
Relationships: Plo Koon & CC-3636 | Wolffe, Worick Arcangelo & Nicolas Brown
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	Sun Reaching Skyward

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alyyks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyyks/gifts).



> Happy birthday!!! You ambushed me with feelings on my birthday last year, so it was only fair that I did the same for you! <3
> 
> Sorry if I got any of the Gangsta stuff wrong — the wiki is decent, but it only goes so far.

Nic and Worick stumble across the perfect mark just before noon. The outlander is talking to someone from the Cristiano family, high-ranking enough that he must be important. And if he’s important, then he must have money.

Kel Dor, Nic thinks. He’s never seen one in person before, but there was a picture in one of Worick’s books, and a note that oxygen is poisonous to them. They don’t tend to venture this far out on the Outer Rim; most of the non-humans passing through Ergastulum are Weequay, Toydarians, or Aqualish, plus the occasional Twi’lek. Worick swears he saw a Wookie once from a distance, but Nic doesn’t believe him.

They used to talk about one day stealing a ship and running off to the stars. Becoming pirates or smugglers or even legitimate traders. Nic knows now that it’s never going to happen, but whenever they venture near the spaceport, he can’t help but think of that book and stare at the ships and imagine what it would be like to be free.

The Kel Dor’s tunic looks soft and warm and expensive, and Nic can’t identify the cylinder hanging from his waist but he’s willing to bet he could get enough wupiupi to feed himself and Worick for a month just for the metal.

He’s got a bodyguard too, standing a respectful distance away from the conversation taking place, and scanning the crowd for threats. The bodyguard’s blaster pistols tucked in their holsters look common enough, but Nic’s only ever met a handful of people who could afford more than a piece or two of body armor, let alone enough plastoid to be covered head to toe. It’s custom-painted too, with patches of grey, a stylized wolf on the right shoulder, and a few red and yellow shapes on the helmet. 

The Cristiano official presents the Kel Dor with a pair of Celebrer injectors, and the outlander accepts them with a bow. They speak for a few more moments, and then the official goes back into his office. 

The Kel Dor hands the Celebrer over to his bodyguard, who tucks it into a belt pouch. Nic is startled; that’s demonstrating a lot of trust. Maybe the Kel Dor is paying his bodyguard enough to keep him loyal, or maybe he’s just foolish enough to think that he is.

Not Nic’s problem either way, although he can’t help wondering what the Kel Dor will do to the bodyguard when he finds out the Celebrer is missing. With any luck he’ll be long gone by then and never find out.

He thinks they’re having a conversation, although between the Kel Dor’s anti-ox mask and the bodyguard’s helmet, he can’t actually see their lips to confirm. The Kel Dor reaches out to clasp the bodyguard’s shoulder for a brief moment, and then turns and walks off. The bodyguard watches him go, shaking his head, and Nic is surprised that he would allow the Kel Dor to leave unsupervised, but that’s not his problem either.

Beside him deep in the shadows, Worick nods. It’s time to make his move. 

Nic steps out onto the sidewalk and heads towards the bodyguard, walking fast like he’s in a hurry. He times the collision perfectly, just as the helmet tilts away, and his fingers easily flick open the belt pouch and dip inside to retrieve the Celebrer. He vocalizes something he hopes sounds vaguely apologetic and takes a step past the man.

That’s as far as he gets before a hand clamps down hard on his arm and spins him back around.

For a moment, they both just stand there, frozen. Nic stares up at the expressionless helmet; if the person underneath it is speaking, he can’t tell. The bodyguard’s head tilts as he surveys Nic, and his grip tightens at the sight of the Celebrer clutched in Nic’s hand. Nic can’t help wincing a little; he’s already got a bruise on that wrist from when it was ground into the pavement last week during one of the mercenary jobs he took.

And then Nic wrenches his arm out of the man’s grasp, turns, and bolts. He doesn’t need to look back to know that the bodyguard is following.

Nic slows only long enough to snag Worick’s hand as he passes the alley they’d been lurking in, and drags Worick along. The crowds are decently thick in this part of the city, but not enough to lose their pursuer.

Worick pulls them towards another alley, and Nic follows his lead easily. They cross from the Cristiano family’s territory into the Monroe family’s, and emerge onto a much busier commerce street. The bodyguard is still close behind.

They duck and weave through the crowd, slipping through gaps that should be too narrow for a full-grown man in armor, but he follows with ease. Nic would be impressed if he wasn’t so worried about what would happen if they get caught. Obviously the man is worth whatever the Kel Dor is paying to keep him around.

Worick yanks Nic around a corner and into the deep shadow of a building, and they stumble to a halt for a moment, gasping for breath. Nic’s heart is beating faster than it should, even with all the running they just did, and his head is pounding.

He looks down at the autoinjectors he stole. Normally he would wait until the symptoms were worse, but if they have to do more running, he can’t afford to be a liability. Nic presses them both to his thigh and takes a dose.

His head clears almost instantly, and he can feel his heart rate slowing to a more normal speed. He always tries not to let himself enjoy the feeling, since he can’t always get the drug before the symptoms get bad, and acknowledging that sometimes everything doesn’t hurt just makes it worse when it does. Besides, feeling good isn’t something he deserves; everyone in his life has made that painfully clear to him. Still, though, he can’t help slumping a little in relief.

Then he looks at the injectors, habit making him check how many doses are left, and to his horror, the number is zero. Nic wants to laugh and he also wants to cry, because they’ve been chased all over the city for a single dose of Celebrer, since Nic was stupid enough to assume that someone in fancy clothes would be able to afford a full pen’s worth of the drug. And now he’s wasted it, and they’re going to have to do this all over again in a few days.

He doesn’t want to tell Worick, but in his experience, trying to hide his failures only ever made the punishments worse when he was found out, so he holds out the empty injectors. 

Worick snarls in fury, grabs the injectors from Nic’s hand, and slams them to the ground. The anger mostly isn’t directed at Nic, he thinks, but he still hunches his shoulders uncomfortably at the waves of rage coming off of his friend, strong enough to make dust drift down from the concrete slabs of the building providing their cover.

There’s movement out of the corner of his eye, and years of reinforcement that anger around him means that pain is imminent makes it hard to take his eyes off of Worick, but he flicks a glance at the street anyway. The bodyguard has spotted them, and is bearing down on them fast.

Nic brings his hands up just a little, not enough to make Worick even more irritated, and signs a warning. Some of Worick’s temper bleeds away, replaced by alarm. He grabs Nic’s wrist, tugs Nic out of the shadows and back onto the street, and then they’re running again.

They’ve been heading mostly north, but now they’re getting dangerously close to Corsica territory. Neither of them know this part of the city as well, but Nic knows they need to start heading east if they don’t want to deal with enemies on both sides.

Worick turns down another alley, with Nic following, and then stops dead so abruptly Nic nearly runs into him. The other end is blocked off, and the only way out is where they came in. And that’s not an option because the bodyguard is there, hands on his blaster even if he hasn’t drawn it yet.

Nic shoves Worick behind him and raises his fists. He’s gone up against bigger guys before and won. Worick may hate him, but they’re all each other has (Worick isn’t his; nothing is his — Nic knows that, he swears), and he’ll do anything he needs to, to keep Worick safe.

***

Beneath his helmet, Wolffe raises an eyebrow. These boys have impressive stamina; he’s pretty sure he chased them more than half the length of the city, and he’s never been more grateful for his own brutal ARC training. He has to admire the dark-haired boy’s courage too, foolish as the kid may be. Not many people would pick a fight with a fully armed and armored clone, at least not without getting very drunk first.

Now that they’re standing still, he can finally get a good look at both of them. The one in front has a bruise coloring one cheek, and another peaking out the end of his threadbare sleeve that looks suspiciously like a boot tread. The blond one looks healthier overall and better-fed, but he’s got a dirty piece of cloth covering his left eye. Wolffe’s own prosthetic burns in sympathy.

He doesn’t see the Celebrer anywhere. One of them must have stashed it in his clothes somewhere.

As a cadet, Wolffe got flash training on civilian life and common family structures. Theoretically, human children are supposed to be raised by at least one parent or guardian in small family units, with social connections to neighboring groups as well as more distant members of their own families. 

Since leaving Kamino, though, he’s rarely seen a family that looked like the ones in his training; most of the children he’s encountered have been traumatized, orphaned, battle-shocked. These two look like they fall into that category as well.

Wolffe spreads his hands and takes a step forward. He’s not going to pull his blaster on a pair of scared civilian kids, not even if it’s set to stun. “I don’t want to press charges,” he says. “Just hand back the Celebrer and you’re free to go.”

The boy in front doesn’t react, doesn’t even acknowledge that Wolffe spoke, but his friend reaches out and taps two fingers to the boy’s arm. The kid turns a little and takes a small step to the side, so that he can see his friend while keeping Wolffe in his peripheral vision. 

“He said he’ll let us go if you give him back the Celebrer,” the blond boy says, and Wolffe watches as the other one’s eyes focus on his lips as he speaks. The dark-haired boy growls low, and his hands move in the air in shapes that remind Wolffe of ARC sign, although he can’t understand what they mean.

Moving slowly, Wolffe reaches up to pull his helmet off. Both kids tense up anyway, the dark-haired one’s full attention snapping back to him. “Easy,” Wolffe says, tucking his helmet under one arm. “What are your names?”

They exchange glances. “I’m Worick,” the blond one says. “That’s Nic.”

“I’m Wolffe,” Wolffe tells them, skipping his rank and numeric designation. “I don’t want to get you boys in trouble,” he adds. “I just need that sample back.”

“We don’t have it anymore,” Worick says.

Wolffe makes a face that he’s been told superbly conveys his deep skepticism. “I just chased you across half the city,” he says. “That’s a hell of a long way to run if you just dropped it somewhere.”

Nic signs something to his friend, who shakes his head with a firm “no.” Nic signs again, his expression pleading, but Worick just hisses, “Shut up,” then turns back to Wolffe.

“We don’t have it,” he repeats.

 _Civilians_ , Wolffe thinks, with an internal sigh. He's always hated dealing with them, doesn’t know how Fox can stand it.

Wheedling the Cristiano family into giving that Celebrer sample to an outsider had taken all of General Koon’s considerable negotiating skills. They’re not going to be able to get a replacement if they admit to losing it, and they’re not going to be able to buy from anyone else; Republic credits are worthless this far into the Outer Rim.

“If you don’t give it back,” Wolffe warns, “I’m going to have to get the planetary authorities involved.”

The boys look at each other again, fear plain on both of their faces. They look more scared by the threat than Wolffe would have expected from a pair of pickpockets, and he has a sinking feeling that they might be more than that. Nic brings his fists up again and squares his shoulders, and Wolffe has just about resigned himself to stunning them both and dragging them to the nearest government building, when a very familiar voice speaks up from behind him.

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” General Koon says, and steps up beside Wolffe. 

“General,” Wolffe says, feeling his face turn red. “I…”

General Koon waves a hand. “There is nothing for you to apologize for, Commander,” he says, then turns to the boys. “I regret that I am unable to remove my mask in this atmosphere. Would you be willing to translate for your friend?” he asks Worick, who stares up at him, his brows furrowed in a mix of suspicion and utter confusion. Wolffe sees that look a lot on people who deal with his general.

“Sure,” Worick says, a little hesitant.

The general’s face scrunches up in a way that Wolffe knows means that he’s beaming beneath his mask. “I am Jedi Master Plo Koon,” he tells the boys. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

They greet him awkwardly, clearly unsure how to react. Wolffe suppresses an urge to snort.

“I don’t suppose Commander Wolffe has told you why the Celebrer is so important to us?” the general says.

Worick repeats the question for Nic, and they both shake their heads.

“The Republic is interested in investigating the potential of this drug for use in the war against the Separatists,” the general begins. 

"You are aware, I presume, of the effect that Celebrer has on the body, particularly when overdosed upon. What you may not know is that the enhanced speed and strength are not a result of mere adrenaline; instead the drug is enhancing a person’s connection to the Force. Even those with very little Force-sensitivity under normal circumstances are able to draw upon it after taking Celebrer. If someone with enough Force-sensitivity to become a Jedi were to take it, the effects would be many orders of magnitude greater.”

He tilts his head, peering closely at Nic. “You took a dose recently, did you not? Your Force signature is practically blinding.”

Nic recoils, flashes a hand sign to Worick, and an instant later, both kids try to make a run for it straight through Wolffe and the general. Wolffe grabs at them and manages to catch Worick around the waist, reeling him in close, and feeling grateful for the armor that resists the kid’s attempts to elbow him in the gut. Nic twists out of Wolffe’s grip, lightning-fast, only to run headfirst into General Koon, who wraps an arm around the boy’s shoulders, enough to hold him in place but not tight enough to hurt. Nic squirms and immediately tries to bite, but the only part of the general’s arm he can reach is protected by vambraces.

“There’s no need for that,” the general says, calm as ever. “As I’m sure Wolffe told you, we’re not here to cause you trouble.”

“Then let us go,” Worick demands. “We can’t give you your sample back; you already know Nic used it.”

“No, I suppose you can’t,” General Koon agrees. “But tell me, have either of you ever had your Force sensitivity tested?”

Worick shakes his head. “Jedi don’t come here,” he says. 

“Ah,” the general says sadly. “Perhaps one day, when the war is over, that will change.” He pauses. Wolffe has a bad feeling he knows what General Koon is going to say next; he’s witnessed far too many instances of his general picking up strays to have failed to develop an instinct for when it might be coming.

“It will be difficult to accurately judge Nic’s true level until the Celebrer wears off,” General Koon says, “but I believe both of you are sufficiently strong to be trained, if that is something you desire.”

Both boys freeze again. Wolffe has to fight down the urge to let go of Worick immediately; a clone restraining a civilian is one thing, but everything in him rebels against the thought of inadvertently hurting a Jedi, even a young one who isn't a Jedi yet. It’s only the waves of reassurance emanating from General Koon that keep him from releasing the boy.

“My battalion will be making a stop on Coruscant before our next deployment,” the General continues. “I would be happy to transport you to the Jedi Temple there, and explain your situation to the Council.”

Of course he would make that offer, Wolffe groans internally. Potential Jedi or not, these children are proven thieves and troublemakers, and Wolffe doesn’t even want to think about all the mischief they could get up to on a Venator-class Star Destroyer.

There’s another flurry of hand signals, and then Worick asks, “What would you want from us in return?”

There’s no mention of seeking permission from parents or guardians. No hint that these boys have any ties to this planet that is their home or any reason to stay, just suspicion at an offer that sounds too good to be true. Wolffe isn’t entirely surprised; the boot print on Nic’s arm looks adult-sized.

Wolffe knows that the General is about to assure them that he doesn’t want anything, but Wolffe has a feeling that, with these two, that would be a mistake. They’re distrustful and on-edge, and probably still expecting some kind of punishment for the theft. They won't believe that the general would give them something for nothing. Even Wolffe has trouble remembering to expect his kindness sometimes.

Before General Koon can open his mouth, Wolffe says, “You get us a sample of Celebrer to replace the one you stole.”

That means letting the kids out of their sight. If Wolffe is very lucky, then they’ll run off and not come back, and he won’t have to worry about keeping two children entertained for the nearly week-long trip back to the Core. If his luck isn’t so good, he’ll have to deal with a pair of Force-sensitive boys with excessive amounts of energy that they have no constructive outlet for and several hundred bored soldiers eager to enable their mischief, but at least the mission will have been successful.

When the General’s forehead immediately scrunches in a frown, Wolffe flashes an ARC sign at him with his free hand. _Trust me_.

 _Always_ , the General responds without hesitation, his expression smoothing.

“Deal,” Worick says, and Nic nods.

General Koon beams at them. “Excellent,” he says. “Our ship will be leaving in twelve hours from docking bay 6B. I trust that will be enough time for you to put your affairs in order and meet us there?”

They nod again, and the General releases his grasp on Nic’s shoulders. Wolffe lets Worick go and takes a step back, giving the boys a clear path between himself and the General. They both pass through warily, expecting to be grabbed again, and take off running the moment they’re clear.

Wolffe watches them go, relieved. “We’re never going to see them again,” he says, his mind already turning back to the mission. There must be a way to turn Republic credits into an acceptable currency and acquire another Celebrer sample in the next twelve hours, he thinks.

General Koon chuckles. “Have a little faith, commander,” he says. “They’ll be there.”

The general sounds utterly confident, and Wolffe has never known him to be wrong about this sort of thing. He groans, not bothering to hide it, and goes to comm Sinker to prepare the ship for upcoming mayhem.


End file.
